


Technicolor

by Katherinehgt



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-05 03:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherinehgt/pseuds/Katherinehgt
Summary: "So, he does nothing and watches her leave, embraces the blank, sour destiny that stretches before his eyes like a boundless, arid land." Season 4 - Soulmate AU. Three-shot.





	1. Chapter 1

"Love was a feeling completely bound up with color, like thousands of rainbows superimposed one on top of the other."

\- Paulo Coelho

The first time that Richard Castle sees Kate Beckett, he's on the subway. He'd never seen her before, which means that she's either not from the city, or just doesn't usually ride this line at this time of the day. She looks confident, her feet are grounded and solid, yet follow each jolt with ease, and doesn't check the train line map above the door, which tells him that she actually must be from the city.

She's gorgeous.

Mile-long legs in tight dark jeans, a dark blue blouse under a gorgeous beige burberry trench accompanied by insanely high pumps. It's stylish, and yet casual- doesn't give out much on who she is. Her hair is long, loose bouncy chestnut waves that tumble past her shoulders in a whirlwind of autumn tones and shades. He stares at her for far too long for it to look unintentional, trying to meet her eyes - find out if she is the _one._ It's a futile attempt, a desperate experiment that he knows would most probably leave him sagging in disappointment. Thing is, he can _see_ it.

Or at least, he thinks he can. It's weak, the color is not even really there - a diluted, adulterated shade that is so weak that he thinks it is in fact pink, not red. The color pink is one you're endowed with when you meet your newborn's eyes for the first time, but can also be a weakened _red._ He's heard of that all his life; red is the color everyone dreams to earn but rarely finds. It's said that, when in presence of a _potential_ partner, the color can manifest itself - in a very subtle way you can almost miss. He's experienced that before, but it is only by meeting your soulmate's eyes that pink turns to red. To this day, he still ignores what that color looks like, only knows it's much stronger than pink.

Problem is, he knows it's no one around him, has met those strangers' eyes in the few minutes he's been on.

She is the only one, it can only be _her._

She's facing the doors, and he doubts she can even see him in the corner of her eyes. He could simply stand, and approach her - he would know then. A lot of people desperate to find their other half don't hesitate to just go for it. He used to be one of them. But he's stuck, frozen on his seat, doesn't know that he can suffer through yet again the acid burn of deception; the wrenching pain that seizes your heart and twist it as if some unseeable force tries to tear it out of your chest. He's been through that enough times, has seen enough pink never turning to red to be wary of how reliable it is. He's been with women before, but while they had been good fits - it always ended fairly quickly. No one is supposed to grow old with someone who's not their soulmate, it doesn't happen. His former girlfriend, Meredith, was gorgeous and had fit the man he had been back then. They had had a three-month baby girl who had tragically died in her sleep, and from that moment he had never been the same and the couple hadn't survived. They no longer _fit._

It's stupid.

He doesn't want that anymore, doesn't just want someone who temporarily _fits._ He wants, _needs_ the real thing, but he's also aware that the chances are infinitely thin.

So, he does nothing and watches her leave, embraces the blank, sour destiny that stretches before his eyes like a boundless, arid land

* * *

The second time Castle sees her, he's sitting at a table at the far end of the coffee shop, facing the glass doors. Her hair is held up, today. A neat ponytail that swings cheerfully with each step she takes, lone strands of hair framing her face, softening the hard edges. His eyes linger on the black leather jacket and white t-shirt, the jeans that hug her taut legs. He can see even from here, the black and neat line that runs along her eyelashes. It's different than the last time, but not in the least bit less endearing. She looks sharp, holds her head high, but gives a soft smile to the barista. She's hard, but soft, gives him a contradictory picture he's dying to learn more about.

This time, he's not surprised when a pale pink comes to circle his vision like a blurry halo. He knows it's her.

The barista calls her name, and his lips quirk up as it swirls around in his mind. _Kate Beckett._

He likes it, strong name - it suits her. He tries it, mouths it just loud enough for him to hear, simply to have a taste of it.

He can sense the moment her eyes shift in his direction, and as panic takes ahold of him- he cowardly drops his own gaze to his keyboard.

When he looks back up, she's gone.

He doesn't know if she realized it's him. If he's right, then she must know.

He sighs in a sound of self-pity and discouragement, and lets his fingers fix it.

In the story he writes, he doesn't look down.

He doesn't look down, and their gazes meet and fuse in an overwhelming connection that he feels running through his veins, the sheer relief blooming through his synapses in an awakening of senses; the blurry ring turning to a vibrant welcoming red, the hard wood of the table rough under his trembling fingers, the smell of coffee beans so strong and bitter he can taste it on his tongue, every chime of the door resonating in his eardrums.

In his story, he doesn't look down, and she smiles at him.

* * *

Castle opens his eyes to a strange darkness that rouses an unsettling feeling deep within him. He's never liked darkness, fear of the dark is anchored in his DNA. He's always made purposively sure to leave a crack in the curtains to let the soft glow of the street lamp seep into his bedroom, casting a comforting hue.

And yet, he wakes up and finds himself in an endless black hole, his lungs constricting upon themselves and obstructing the airway. His eyes span the room, his hands fist around the duvet as his chest erratically heaves, his mouth gaping and yet nothing coming out. Fear bounds his legs together as a cold sweat washes over him, leaving his hair standing on end all over his body.

The prevailing silence is stifling and deafening, leaves too much room to the self-evident truth he cannot face, nor accept.

He screws his eyes shut, presses the palm of his hands hard into his eyes sockets, but the flitting stars never come. He takes a deep gulp of breath that slips out of his mouth around a shuddering sound.

It _can't_ be.

" _Mother!_ " It's raw, scratches harshly at his throat. The hoarse sound desperate, and slightly hysterical, his chest bursting with it.

He doesn't know what time it is, day or night.

His nostrils flare when he throws his legs down the side of his bed, swallows past the lump in his tight throat. He hears a commotion from his study before the sound of his door slamming into the wall, he guesses.

"Oh my, darling, are you okay?" The alerted voice of his mother somewhat quells the hungry mouth clawing at his chest, but the beast is fierce, does not relent.

He ducks his head around hunched shoulders as he focuses on his ragged breathing, shakes his head in declination.

"Richard. What is it?" He hears heels click against his floorboard - Night, then, probably late, too.

The burning acid of welling tears rushes up his throat as he grits his teeth. "Mom. I can't see."

The sharp intake of breath that follows as the mattress dips next to him is enough a response.

"Oh, Richard." It's pained, and broken.

Just like he is.

The next day, he asks his mother to help him into the study and turns the tv on, finds the news tv station by total luck. It's a vain cause, but it's all he's got.

"What are you looking for, Richard?" His mother sighs as he sits in his armchair, rubs his face into his hands.

 _Kate,_ his rioting and fast decaying soul seems to scream.

"I don't know," he croaks out, his voice and heart breaking as one.

" _Detective Katherine Beckett is reported to be now heading to the Presbyterian hospital after receiving a single bullet to the chest-"_

His body freezes then and there, hands clenching and creeping up to nest into his hair and grip, _hard -_ hard enough for the flaring pain to make him _feel_ it.

But the intense, exploding ache that radiates throughout his own sternum like a reminder of what he's just heard is just as effective.

It's _her._

It's her, and she's dead.

He shouldn't have looked down.


	2. Chapter 2

"Colors, like features, follow the changes of emotions"

Pablo Picasso

Kate Beckett isn't a firm believer in fate. She's been told as a child that all living creatures are connected to the universe that surrounds them in a way science has yet to uncover. She remembers being upset when her friends bragged about being able to see so many colors, colors that _she_ couldn't. But, she also remembers the thrill of excitement and elation that had consumed her when she'd gained to a brand new color, whatever it meant; she didn't care, it was hers and that was all.

Her first colors were blue and yellow, like most people; blue for maternal love, yellow for paternal love. But she still remembers the color she had acquired later on, she must have been 8 at the time.

She'd come home from school with a bubbling energy, which wasn't surprising on its own, but she'd felt the conflict within her; joy and restraint clashing inside. Her mom had known. She always did, and that day had brought no exception. She'd given her that book, _The meaning of colors,_ and had asked her to point the one she couldn't yet name.

" _Purple, color of imagination, creativity and high spirituality._ " She'd read to her in a soft voice, pride shining like a bright stars in her warm eyes.

But, with time, she learnt to ignore them. Doubt them.

She was 19 when her mother was ripped away from her, alongside her innocence and carefree spirit. Since that day, she can no longer tell what color the sky is - a constant, dull gray looming over her - can no longer perceive a large range of colors that no longer fits the person she's become.

So no, she doesn't trust _fate_. Only knows the cruel, unfair rule of life.

However, she can admit that if it is real, it works in funny ways.

While she hadn't been a stranger to furtive apparitions of pink rays as a teenager, she hadn't seen many since her mother's death. Not even the _universe_ can find anyone who merely _fits_ her, and she truly can't blame it.

Until today.

Ironically, she rarely ever rides the subway to go to work. Her cruiser had broken down the day before, and she'd been told to use Esposito and Ryan's car for a few days. Which is why she now has to take the subway for personal trips.

It hits her the second she steps into the car, it takes her aback at first; the blurry but consistent pink so unexpected that it is all she can see. She takes deep breaths, the hand she has wrapped around the bar tensing and clamping so hard that the cold metal stings harshly and bites into her skin. She faces the doors, refusing to let her eyes wander, because she knows; it is not worth it. Whoever shares that glow with her may be looking for her, but she won't play this game.

She knows what can come along with pink, and it is far scarier than she can handle, far from what she deserves. She doesn't want to take the risk, doesn't _need_ to know - can't.

The mere idea of crossing someone's gaze only to see the place turn red ties her insides into a knot, and it shouldn't be this way. She should be excited, yet the strained, erratic beats of her heart have nothing to do with any emotion of the sort.

She swallows down the heavy ball of regret in her throat, ignores the guilt that's settled deep within her bones, ignores the small part of her that yearns for it - for a matching piece.

To be _whole._

Her resolve strengthening, she reminds herself that she is not _soulmate -_ or partner- material, would probably never be, and steps out at the next station without looking back.

Whoever it is, they're better off without her.

* * *

The second time pink greets her, exasperation is replaced with surprise, her guts churning while her paranoid mind hints that she may be being followed - because really, not a sight of pink for years and suddenly she's got the city at her feet? No, something tells her it's the same person.

But, once again, she shrugs it off and takes her usual order. She's come here on a whim; her lead had driven her right into a dead end and she'd spotted the coffee shop, couldn't resist the pull. For some reason, taming the persistent inner voices is harder this time - curiosity interfering with her ordinarily unshakeable reasoning.

The place is mostly empty, and she met the barista's eyes, so she knows for certain it's not him. There's only one person she hasn't laid eyes on yet, at the far end of the room, can see a foggy form in the corner of her eye.

Her teeth sink in her lower lip when she ducks her head and pushes a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, listens to the inner debate that's taking place; her eager, naive heart trying to level her over-rational and practical mind.

Thing is, she _is_ curious.

A small, well-hidden part of her wants to know what kind of person can possibly fit her. Yet, she wonders what kind of person is considered strong enough to endure the wrath of her unrelenting grief.

She takes her disposable cup from the teenager with a smile and circles both her hands around the warm cardboard, rejoices in the heat that somehow quell her anxiety.

Stepping aside, she lets her eyes slowly drift toward the man in the back, makes sure to look low enough so she doesn't meet his eyes by accident. Her eyes land on a laptop first, and when she takes a deeper look, her eyes widen by themselves, and she has to clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle the gasp that's bursting out of her.

He's not watching her, seems to be engrossed into whatever he's typing; strong forearms flexing with each move of his fingers along the keys.

Her eyes narrowing, she shakes her head in disbelief, lets her hand drop to her side.

It can't be. It doesn't make sense.

Richard Castle, her favorite author, a fitting partner - potential _soulmate?_

It's ridiculous, irrational and _why_? They absolutely do _not_ fit; no matter how she looks at it, she can't see it.

Her heart flutters naively all the same, awakening something dangerous she cannot indulge in - _hope._

No, her own personal stupid crush must mislead whatever force at work here, and that's all there is to it.

She detaches her eyes from him, doesn't anticipate the odd urge to get closer.

Confused by the incredibly sudden and unwelcome feeling, she strides out of the coffee shop before he can catch her looking, before she can let herself do something she'd regret.

* * *

She can tell today is a nice one by the brightness of the light, the heat that wraps around her and makes her uniform itch.

Except that it's nothing but a _nice_ day.

Her Captain is dead, because of _her_ and nothing about it is _nice._

She sweeps her eyes over the organized crowd before her, solemn faces looking at her expectantly.

Her gloved hands fist at her side, throat constricting around words that won't get out. She knows what she has to say, has his own words anchored in her clouded mind, but she lost control - feels enslaved to her mourning soul.

When she finally opens her mouth, no sound comes out, for different reasons.

She hears screaming before she can tell what's going on. It is only when her body hits the ground that she registers the paralysing pain flaring angrily across her sternum. She can only stare at the gray length, the surprisingly loud whooshing sound of her heart the only sound reverberating around her.

Until she can't hear anything anymore, her world turning pitch black; color, by color.


	3. Chapter 3

Colors answer feeling in man; shapes answer thought; and motion answers will

John Sterling

 

 

Richard Castle isn’t facing away anymore, not this time, not _ ever _ . 

 

Blindly changing into a pair of jeans and a shirt his mother arranged for him, he realizes how lucky he is, despite the circumstances. He  _ knows _ where she is. He knows exactly  _ who _ she is. Had he not turned the tv on when he did, he would have never known - would have lost any chance to find her. 

 

He spent the night and a good part of the day pacing in his bedroom, colliding into furnitures as he did so, and trying to find a way to  _ prevent _ whatever he knew would happen. 

 

Until he realized he was powerless. He’d asked his mother to search Kate’s name on Google, and she’d squeezed his wrist with a sigh, had told him there was nothing of use. He’d called his friend the mayor, only to be greeted by his voicemail. He’s tried calling the NYPD, but was evidently told they couldn’t share anything about it - for security concerns. He’d asked his mother to tell him what had been on screen, which hadn’t been of much help either, since the news reporter had talked from the front of the hospital. 

 

He’d known every minute counted, and yet he’d given up. 

 

Those stories never end well.

 

He’s heard it all before, the story about the man whose soulmate and wife had died so suddenly and unexpectedly that he hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

 

He knows what that story says, knows what happened to him. 

 

Last night was a warning. 

 

A push from the universe - its way to give him a chance to  _ save _ her before it’s too late, a blunt warning of what would come and what could change. Its way to show him how dull and bleak his life could be, and remain from now on.

 

He failed. 

 

He didn’t know where to find her, nor what had happened. 

 

He wasn’t there for her when it counted, but now he can be. 

 

“Richard, darling, are you ready? The car’s here.” Tucking the shirt inside his jeans, and shrugging his jacket on, he took a deep breath. 

 

Whatever happens, whether she lives or dies - he’ll make sure he’s by her side.

 

No more looking down. 

 

* * *

His mother leads him to the front desk, squeezes his arm when his turn comes. Not knowing where to  _ look _ , he decides to keep his head straight ahead.

 

The minute the nurse asks him to come forward, the words rush out of him before he can approve any of them, “Hi, I’m looking for Kate Beckett, a detective? I- I know she’s here. How is she?”

 

“And, you are?” the lady clips back harshly, and he bristles instantly. 

 

“Ah- Richard Castle. Can you tell me how she is?” It comes out desperate, and weak - his voice shook by the tremors he has no control over. His heart hammers inside his confined chest, blood pumping through his veins so forcefully that his legs start to quiver.

 

“Are you a relative, Sir?” His nostrils flare at the distinctly boring intonation, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

 

“Uh, no, no. But-” he stammers, an unpleasant weight settling low in his stomach, his throat going dry. 

 

“Then, no. Next, please.”

 

His heart twists and lurches, so does he.

 

“Wait- Wait!” he cries out a hand reaching forward and slapping against the sleek surface. “She’s.. I think she’s my-” Something clicks -  a sudden awareness that silences him. The shock runs through him, so brutal that he feels struck down. “Soulmate.”

 

It’s only now that he truly realizes that this is  _ it,  _ he can’t let anyone stand between them. 

 

“Really? Do you know how many people pull that card?”

 

His hand fists against the counter, the rush of adrenaline like a fuel igniting the flame. “Look, I’m pretty sure you can tell I don’t see you, am I right,” he states clearly, hears the nurse shift.

 

“Surely, you can tell him how the girl is,” his mother, who hasn’t uttered a word until now, says fervently.

 

She knows what’s at stake, he can hear it in her usually frivolous voice that’s noticeably more stern - scolding even. 

 

It makes something snap inside him, and the fight escapes him, replaced by a resurfacing vulnerability. “Please, I- I’ve just found her,” he pleads. 

 

The nurse sighs in defeat. His heart rate picks up. 

“ _ Fine.  _ She’s in ICU at the moment, and won’t be up for guest visiting for a couple more hours. Her father is with her. Room 647, sixth floor, between the G and F wing.”

 

“Thank  _ you,”  _ he stresses.

 

_ “ _ Good luck, Sir.”  


 

* * *

Castle doesn’t know what to do. 

 

He’s pacing back and forth by her door where his mother left him, his shoes squeaking awfully loudly in the stillness of the hallway. She told him she would wait in the waiting room, tried to convince him to come with her, but he can’t. He can’t stand still knowing she’s somewhere behind that door.  _ Alive,  _ but not quite.

 

Yet, he still can’t see. 

 

He doesn’t care, assumes it’ll take more than that; a look? a touch? her voice, perhaps? He doesn’t know, he just knows that-

 

“Ahem.” 

 

His head snaps up at the sound of a clearing throat, though doesn’t manage to locate it. 

 

“You,” a deep, but strangled voice comes from the door. 

 

Blinking, he whips his head round unsurely. “Me?”

 

“Yes, you,” it’s a laugh, this time. Weak, and yet slightly amused. “Richard Castle, right? I’ve been warned you’d come up here.” 

 

Oh, her  _ father.  _

 

His  _ soulmate _ ’s dad. He can’t screw this up.

 

“Yeah, ah- I’d shake your hand, but to be frank, I’ve no idea where you are,” he lets out with a strained chuckle. 

 

“I see, so it’s true, then. You’re..Katie’s soulmate, aren’t you?” There’s no judgement in his voice, no wariness. 

 

“Yes, Sir. I believe I am.” 

 

He feels a hand wrap around his arm carefully, and holds his breath when another lithe, soft hand squeezes his own. 

 

“In that case, please, go take my seat.”

 

His eyes widen. 

 

“Are you sure? I mean I-”

 

Oh he wants to, but while his whole being is eagerly yearning for it, he’s  _ scared.  _

 

“I am sure. She hasn’t woken up yet, but you being here could help.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’d be surprised. Touch her hand, see what happens.” Something in the man’s voice hints that he knows what he’s saying, and Castle wonders if he’s speaking from experience, wonders where Kate’s mother is. 

 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

 

He knows it’s unlikely, but the need to protect himself after years of blighted hope is fierce and instinctive.

 

“You’re here, aren’t you? Trust your gut. I can tell you  _ know _ .”

 

He swallows, emotion welling up from deep within his chest, up to his throat, drowning the words that want out, “Thank you, Sir,” he manages.

 

The man gives him a supportive clap of a hand behind his shoulder. “Please, call me Jim.”

 

He nods, his lips quirking up.

 

He  _ likes _ the man. 

 

“Help me in?”

 

* * *

Castle waits.

 

He’s sitting in the chair next to Kate’s bed, can hear the daunting blips of the machines, the mechanical sound of the artificial ventilation that’s breathing for her. His chest feels clogged up, filled with apprehension, and expectation all at once. Bright sparks of slow burning anticipation snakes through his system, lodges in his spine. 

 

He reaches out, can feel the furious tremor of his hand. He blindly feels the bedding and around until his fingers graze her skin and his breath catches midway through his throat. 

 

The swelling haze of euphoria fills his lungs as his fingers cautiously snake around her hand.

 

Closing his eyes, needle sharp tingles run along his fingers as his heartbeats seem to synchronize with the sound of her own. 

 

And at that exact moment, he feels her fingers move against him - her hand embracing his with a strength that makes his eyes pop open. 

 

This time, he’s blinded by how bright the room is, but even through the mist of blurred and blended colors, he can hear it.

 

She’s choking around her tube. 

 

She’s  _ awake.  _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N/A : Sorry for those following the story here, I update on fanfiction first, and thus kind of forget to update here, too.

"Some colors reconcile themselves to one another, others just clash"

Edvard Munch

 

The deep rooted pain feels like a rock weighing down her chest, crushing and grinding her ribs all at once. It's numb enough that she can stay alert and awake, but it's there, and it's unyielding.

They're keeping her propped up so she can breathe more easily, but still her breaths come out sparse and jagged, each one drawing a new bright flare of pain, fireworks bursting behind her heavy eyelids.

Her mind is still foggy, pieces coming together one by one into a full picture she wishes she'd have forgotten.

She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly through her nose; one, two, three-

A sudden sound bursts her bubble, her startled gasp tearing her chest apart. She hisses through gritted teeth and screwed up eyes, a hand mechanically hovering over her wound, fingers curling midair.

It comes again, and she only now realizes what it is through the heavy mist of pain. A knock.

Her eyes part slowly, her jaw set tight even as her dad walks in slowly, eyeing her with a worried frown, looking older than she's ever seen.

"Katie" he sighs. "Is now okay?"

"Yeah," she croaks. Her head is spinning, the mere effort of talking taking more out of her than it should.

She _hates_ it.

She hears more than sees him hesitate in the middle of the single room they'd wheeled her into not long ago. "Are you sure? You-"

He must see the pain digging creases and pulling strains on her pale face. She's convinced she looks just as bad as she feels.

She pushes through the pain with measured breaths, her nostrils flaring while her sternum catches fire.

"Just- Come here, I'm fine," she mutters stubbornly.

"You're not fine, Katie," her father says as he lowers himself into the chair next to her bed. She swallows hard at the words as they swirl around, _you're not fine._

Was she ever?

"I _will_ be. I just need a minute."

"I won't stay long. I just needed to see you were okay." His voice is rough like gravel, the anguish making it sound desperate in ways she hasn't heard in a long time. She hates that, too, being the cause of it.

She wraps a hand around the one he has on the side of her bed. "I'm good, dad, I'm here," she says looking at him now.

It's never been easy between them, not since she was a child; she spent her teenage years doing the exact opposite of what he wanted from her, and after her mother was gone, she'd lost him.

But sometimes, she forgets how alike they are.

"Of course," he says with a nod, not quite looking at her. "There's someone here who wants to see you," he tells her with a small smile she doesn't understand, a flash of something in his eyes she doesn't know how to interpret.

She knows her dad, can usually read him easily. Now though, she can't tell what brings such a relieved smile to his face.

"Someone _, who_?" she stresses with narrowed eyes, her frown deepening when his smile turns sly.

"You won't believe it."

She rolls her eyes at the strange thrill that colors his tone.

"Dad, please," she offers, unwilling to play.

" _Richard Castle,"_ her dad lets out with wide eyes.

Her heart stutters, and just as instantly, a hoarse gasp escapes her lips.

She blinks, her mouth parting but offering nothing.

 _How_?

"Wha- How did he- why-" Her heart hammers so hard inside the shattered shelter of her chest that the pain flares right back - flames licking at her nerve endings.

Panic settles deep into her spine, and suddenly, it's too much.

She closes her eyes, taking deep, long breaths.

"Katie, are you okay? Do you want me to call a nurse?" She hears, though, it sounds farther than it should.

"NO," she shouts as she squeezes his hand, her eyes wide and imploring. She winces as her battered muscles complain in response. "No," she adds more quietly, but just as firmly. "Just. Tell him to leave. Please."

She lowers her eyes to her bedding. "Why? Katie, he's-"

She shakes her head against the pillow, can't take the confused expression written that's all over his face when she looks back at him. "I know. I know who he is, I know _what_ he is," she says flatly. "And I want him to leave."

This shouldn't even be happening.

"I see. You're sure that's what you want?"

She gives her dad a faint smile, because he means well, and yet sounds so disappointed. But she can't. She can't face it, face _him_ now. "Yes. I'm not- Dad, I can't deal with this. I couldn't before today, and now…" Her eyes drift away, travelling the room as she sighs. She wishes she wasn't so broken. "I need time- alone."

She needs to build herself back up, can't have anyone in her way for that. It's not fair to her, or.. _him_.

Her pulse won't settle down, because she wishes she could..thank him, explain that it must be wrong, that she can't be _right_ for him.

But she's tired, and too proud for that.

"Right. You know, I just want what's best for you, honey. This isn't something you should decide right now," her dad says softly as he stands and kisses her forehead. "At least, think about it."

She lets her lips curl into a smile for him, knows that he doesn't want her to miss out on _true love_ , something that he experienced himself with her mother.

And yet, she can't help thinking: look how well that ended.

No.

This is safer, for both of them.

"Will you please tell him to go?"

* * *

He left the hospital with his tail between his legs like a kicked puppy, roamed around, trying to quell the swelling wave of anger and indignation that threatened to overcome him.

He is wounded, so deep that the rejection stings and fills his mind with a thick smoke; smothering his lungs like a quick spreading fire.

Now sitting in his desk chair, he watches the liquid amber swirl in the thick glass as he twirls his wrist, how it catches the light and shines.

He swallows down the hot scotch with a quick tip back of his head, feels the scorching liquid set his throat and nerves on fire.

It's the only way he can feel anything.

The only way he's found to drown the dark thoughts that won't leave him alone, but nothing can quite compare with the riot of emotions that floods his veins.

He should have expected it, really. He's a stranger to her after all, what reasons did she have to let him in? None.

She almost died.

But he knows now.

He knows what they are, can't overlook it - can't forget it. He tries, hard; squeezes his eyes shut and tries to erase the burn, the _heat_ he felt when grazing her skin.

But even from here, he can still feel it - he feels her hold on him, can't shake it off. It's a phantom limb, an imperceptible link. Something that wasn't here before.

It makes it all so much worse, like feeling her skin under his fingers only to open his eyes and face his own desolation.

She doesn't want him. Her dad told him, though not in so many words; the look in his eyes had been enough. One he had simply answered to with a resigned nod and a forced smile.

She knows who he is, knows what they are, and she doesn't want him. The end.

_Fine._

Perhaps that's best.

Gina texts him, reminding him that she's set up a book tour for him that would last all summer.

He doesn't even think about it twice; he's going - running away from here as fast as he can, hoping it'll soothe the pain that pulses in the gaping hole where his heart should be, warm and safe.

She's made her choice, and it's not him.


	5. Chapter 5

"With color one obtains an energy that seems to stem from witchcraft."

Henri Matisse

Castle is beyond tired; his back is so tense and stiff that he can feel the knots forming along his spine, his hand is cramping from writing the same words over and over again, his face is aching from faking smiles, his mind drained from the effort of pretending he's thrilled to be there.

The tour had gone well, though not as easy as he thought it would be. All along, he'd felt the pull - felt the need to come back growing each time he moved farther away. Yet, now that he is back in New York, it's like he's back to _that_ day - reliving it as though it's just happened. It's the same weight that sinks into his stomach, the same poignant anguish that steals his breath.

An hour goes by, an hour of ' _Hi, where would you like it? How are you? What is your name?',_ an hour of flashing smiles he doesn't truly feel, an hour of trying to look whole and intact. Truth is, he's crumbling.

He'd never thought it would be this hard, he thought not knowing was agonizing, but nothing, _nothing_ except perhaps the grief that fell upon him following his daughter's death can compare with the hollow gap that's growing and growing each day inside his chest like a chronic wound that won't heal.

Knowing is worse, far worse. It ignites contradictions that won't stop trying to top each other - waging a war inside his head. He doesn't know how to feel, which emotion to allow, and which ones to tame down. While he's felt defeated and hopeless at first, anger wasn't far behind - lurking, watching. The taunting frustration is the worst of them all; he can still feel her skin under his fingertips, see the long mane of her hair he's longed to run his hands through since he's laid eyes on her - it _hurts._ Every fiber of his being is yearning for it. He's trying to shut it all down, doesn't feel entitled to such emotions.

Jim, her dad, had called him over the summer telling him he was trying to talk some sense into his daughter. He's tried telling him how she spent her days, but he wouldn't - couldn't hear it. He's grateful for it, and appreciates the man's efforts, can tell that he doesn't like it, but the point of the tour had been to _forget_ \- talking about _her,_ he could not bear.

He's hoped she would change her mind, hoped that time would allow her to see clearer. He can't be the only one vibrating with it, with the need to feel the heat of her skin under his fingertips, can't possibly be the only one missing something; she is part of it, she must feel it, too.

But it's been months now, and hope has long reduced to shreds.

He releases a heavy sigh, feels it coming from deep within his bones and with a quavering inspiration, lifts his head with a practiced smile, ready to deliver his line.

"Hi, who should I make it out t-" His words break, his face falls along with the pen he was holding as his hand goes numb. His chest swells with a momentum that knocks the air out of him, and suddenly he feels like he's falling.

Because, there she is. Looking at him with a lopsided smile and clear eyes as if she hasn't just dragged the chair from under him, as if she hadn't broken his heart beyond repair.

There's nothing he can do but stare. Take in every feature, every trait of her tanned face; she's even more beautiful than he remembers. He's only ever caught little glimpses of her, but nothing compares to her face here and now. Actually, he's never seen her face up this close before, and he's stricken by how gorgeous she is. She has hard, acute traits that make her look sharp in a surprisingly alluring way; a razor sharp jaw, high cheekbones, thick eyelashes, neat eyebrows, and the slope of her nose so smooth that he longs to run a finger down the thin skin. His eyes freeze on her rosy lips that she pinches between her teeth, his own mouth parting but only offering a strangled breath.

Stunned, doesn't quite cut it.

His eyes stroke her face the same way his fingers long to do, memorizing the rosy tint of her cheeks as his gaze drifts higher.

But it's nothing, nothing against the shock that shakes him, and snakes through his nerves endings when he meets her own wide eyes. The jolt is so strong that he jumps upright, taking a life of its own and pushing him forward, he almost misses the red ring that flashes around her dark pupils.

At that same moment, she lets out a gasp he barely hears, her hand fisting against the table.

Seconds feel like hours as time freezes over.

He blinks and takes a look around with every nerve throbbing, and every sense singing only to be faced with the most luminous and colorful picture he's ever been able to perceive.

Did she do _that?_

He frowns, his heart thundering inside his chest, the rush of blood inside his veins roaring like a raging sky.

"Kate," she says at last with a smile that makes his heart stutter, "You can make it out to Kate."

He smiles, bright and uninhibited, the muscles of his jaw almost aching with it.

Of course she is.

Just like that, nothing else matters, but her.

Everything else erased and consigned to oblivion.

* * *

Kate Beckett strides out of the bookstore, completely oblivious of the mix of jealous and confused stares amid the line of fans. Her heartbeat rings in her ears, a tenacious and incessant noise that she can't ignore.

The minute she's out, she rests her back flat against the wall, her whole body and weight sagging against the hard concrete, her head rolling back.

She closes her eyes long enough to focus on her jerky breathing, her hands fisting as she breathes hard and long through her nose.

She must look ridiculous. She doesn't care.

Her eyes drift open, sweeps the surrounding even as a dazed smile stretches her lips. She slams a hand against her mouth to muffle the trembling sound that comes out before she can stop it - a sob or a laugh, she's not sure.

She can see it _all._

How bright it is outside today, how blue and deep the sky is, the vivid green of the grass in the park across the street, the stark _red_ car parked just before her.

She can't quite believe it.

She bites into her lower lip, and her heart won't settle down - spurred by the mix of elation, wonder and a touch of paranoia that she's grown used to.

He must have seen it, too. She saw that he did, how the world changed around them so suddenly, with just a quick look.

Blue.

Undoubtedly the color she missed most, and the one she saw first - in _him._

His eyes, so blue that she believed she'd made it up along with the red ring that had circled his pupil for a split second.

_Soulmate._

The guilt she's lived with all summer is still there, but not as vicious, painful but dull and blended in the flaring hope that's blooming inside her chest.

She's had time to think things through, and knows now that she can't just cast him aside as if her choice couldn't alter his life, too.

She wants to talk to him, because although they may be linked in some way - she's not ready. For anything.

But, she hopes that maybe, maybe they can find a way.

* * *

He runs out of the bookstore the minute he's signed his last book, ignoring the dark glare Gina gives him along the way. He couldn't care less, he's got something more important to do, and it can't _wait._ He's waited long enough for this.

He stops dead midway. What if she's gone?

He swallows, cold sweat running along his spine.

No, he's being stupid, she told him: _I'll be waiting outside, take your time._

He was half listening at that point, too busy staring at her and her incredibly warm and bright eyes, but he can't have dreamed it.

He's become so wary, so careful, he hates it.

But, Kate.

She ignites sparks, brings light to parts of him he'd forgotten - couldn't reach anymore.

Stepping outside, he whips his head around, heart beating so fast that he grows dizzy. Once again, he's dazed by the color range that paints the world, can't believe he's now got access to it all.

He might have fallen in love...with the world, or her - he doesn't know. Probably both.

"Hey! Over here."

Lost long in his perusal of this brand new world, he startles at her voice and almost loses his balance.

She laughs - oh such a beautiful sound - catching him by the arm. "Woah there, cowboy. You alright?"

Is he?

He gulps, double-taking when he feels her hand curl around his forearm. His gaze falls to her long fingers, then snaps back up to her face - a little dumb struck.

She raises her eyebrows, her slow smile spreading encouragingly.

"Ah- Hi. I'm good, thanks."

 _I'm good, thanks._ That's all he's got?

Rolling his eyes to the sky, he takes a deep breath in, and. "Richard Castle," he offers looking back at her, her smile turning into an amused grin, her eyes laughing _at him._ Right. Of course. "But you...know that."

"I do, yeah" she says easily, her voice so light he can only smile in response as they now stare at each other with matching dumb grin and sparkling eyes.

"Shall we?" he tries, looking over at the park that buzzed with kids and pedestrians of all ages.

"Sure."

* * *

They walk slowly side by side, and although they're not talking, it doesn't exactly feel awkward. Each revels in their surroundings, silently taking in the world as it is. It's refreshing, being able to share that experience with someone.

It helps that he's nothing like she was scared he would be, nothing like she imagined and it's quite a surprise - throws her off her balance. He's sweet, and poised, so calm and yet so fidgety that she wonders if he's comfortable at all with her here. Even if he doesn't, he's got his reasons.

It's her fault. He made the first step, and she took them three steps backwards.

She's here now, she'll make it count.

They reach a small swing set, and (strangely) naturally, each takes a seat all too happy to dwell here in silence.

She looks into the distance, the playful squeals of kids filling her ears.

It's her turn to take a step for them.

She clears her throat, staring at the ground. "I- uh. I'm sorry," she says, frowning at the wave of remorse that washes over her. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask why - they both know why. "I shouldn't have rejected you, that day."

"I understand, Kate."

Her frown deepens, her head shaking as soon as his words reach her. "Rick, no. Please, let me say it," she says looking back at him. He's staring at her with wide, clear eyes, his whole body in her direction. "What?"

He shakes his head wordlessly, his fingers tightening their hold around the chain. _All right._

"I couldn't face it. I saw you, before. I knew who you were, and I wasn't strong enough."

He nods, his eyes slightly darkening as he listens. "But, I should've tried telling you that myself. Explained."

His jaw tightens, his gaze drifting away from her, and she can only wait.

"I get it. I do. Perhaps I didn't back then, but you- you'd been _shot_ ," his voice breaks, and when his eyes are back on her, they're of a misty blue that slashes through her fiercely.

She can't control it or explain it, how the _pain_ in his eyes cuts through her like an arrow.

She feels like they've always known each other, and it's scares the shit out of her.

Convinced that he's willing to forgive her, she decides to drop it for now - can't bear to keep stirring such dark emotions that keep echoing her own wound.

She reaches out a hand, curls it around his swing chain, bringing him closer. "But, that's not all," she says, her pinky brushing her hand. "I'm still not where I want, I can't-" feeling a swelling ball in her throat, she hardens her gaze on him. "I can't give you what you want."

She casts her eyes down, doesn't want his judgement or disappointment. He needs to know, she wishes she could give him more than that, _wants_ more than that herself but won't give him false hopes.

She senses his movement beside her, sees him stand in the corner of her eye and for a minute, her heart throbs hard in fear. Of course he's running aw-

"Up. Come on, up."

She feels her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, but takes the hand he's offering.

He squeezes her hand, while another slips through her hair and cups her jaw. The contact is electrifying, his touch arousing a sharp goosebumps along her neck and down her spine. She doesn't dare to move, doesn't want to break the spell, and only stares at him as his eyes bore into her.

"There's nothing I want that you can't offer," he starts, the words tumbling from his mouth and finding refuge in her heart. "If you need time, I'll wait. I'll _wait_ , Kate."

Her teeth sinks into her lip so sharply that she breaks through the thin skin, tasting blood. The rush of emotion is climbing up her throat and prickling the corners of her eyes. She nods into his palm, her lips spreading into a relieved smile.

His thumb presses the upturned corner of her mouth with a smile of his own, and she tugs on his hand, pulls him closer so that their chests brush. Looking deep into the wild blue of his eyes, she lets her own snap between his mouth and eyes, sees him tilting his chin down.

Her heart is thrashing erratically, her throat so dry that she can hardly swallow and before she can think twice about it, she pushes herself up and slants her mouth over his lips, catches his surprised gasp as she does. She sighs into him the minute he kisses her back, the hand cradling her jaw creeping at the back of her skull and angling her face. He lets her hand go to curl his arm around her, pulling her into him as he worked her lips with a reverence and tenderness that has her moaning against her strongest will. Behind her eyelids, it's a firework of senses and colors, under her lips, a silky caress she doesn't want to let go of.

But, she does.

He doesn't loosen his hold on her, only watches as she lays a hand against his cheek.

"That's a promise."

Hopefully, it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what this is, I've been struggling to align two words together lately, and strangely, that's the result of that. It's different than what I usually do, and it's mainly a way to keep writing, but I figured it still was worth publishing. I won't be revealing the prompt, except if really needed, but it shouldn't be. x


End file.
